Author's Note: This chapter features a lot of content that may be triggering to some readers, including graphic sexual content with elements of dubious consent, discussion of past sexual assault and the resulting trauma. It also features discussion of mental health issues, particularly living with borderline personality disorder.

"The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them." -Ernest Hemingway

80 days sober

“Wanna come over after school?” I ask Travis as we make our way from the cafeteria to our lockers after lunch on Friday. “We’ve got a few hours to kill before we’re due to come back for performance prep.” “I can’t,” he sighs. “I have shit to do.” I sling an arm around his shoulders and press a kiss to his hair, though my action coincides with us passing Vice-Principal Jacobs, who shoots us a warning look. Travis ducks out from under my grip before we can get yelled at—again—for violating the school’s “no public displays of affection” policies. I ask, “Work?” “Nope, I’m off tonight. But I’ve got a meeting with Principal Hammond, and I have no idea how long it’ll take.” Suddenly, I’m a lot less concerned with anti-PDA rules than I was a moment ago. I snag his arm and pull him to the side of the stairs before he can head up them; when I curve my hands over his waist, he frowns down at them, but doesn’t move away. “A meeting about what?” I ask. “Are you okay? It’s not about—” “No, it’s not about that,” he says, voice tightening the way it does every time I bring up the therapy, or the meds, or the anything-else-he-suddenly-has-to-deal-with. “It’s just something to do with the number of credits I’ve got. You know, from all the Advanced Placements and extra labs and shit. No big deal.” I raise my eyebrows. He rolls his eyes. “Garen, I swear, everything is fine. Believe me, if I was being dragged back in for another school-sponsored psych evaluation, you’d know about it.” I’m a little bit placated by this, so I pull him closer and kiss him until the bell rings and he squirms away, muttering about how he’s been late to almost every class this week because I can’t keep my hands to myself. It’s been totally worth it, though. He heads to his locker, I go to mine, and after school, I text him, have fun with your lameass meeting. see you tonight xo. It doesn’t occur to me that he might be lying.

81 days sober “Hey, are you doing anything tomorrow? You know, before the evening show?” I whisper, hooking my chin over Travis’ shoulder and peering down at the script in his hands. It’s a good thing I don’t really need to check my lines, because the scene dialog is almost completely obscured by his notes in the margins. “Maybe it’s just because I’ve been focused on the play, but the readings for English are kicking my ass. I mean, I’ve done the reading, I just don’t get how some of those discussion questions apply.” He looks up long enough to shoot me a vaguely apologetic glance as he whispers back, “Sorry, I’ve already got plans. Maybe you could go over Ben’s? You know he’ll be more helpful than me, anyway.” “Yeah, but English studying sessions with Ben only ever include studying English,” I say glumly. “You at least let me jerk you off most of the time.” Travis bites down on a laugh, flicking his eyes towards the stage. There are only about three more lines of dialog before I’m due on-stage. I peck a quick kiss to his cheek and add, just to sate my own curiosity, “What are your plans, anyway?” “Other school stuff,” he says in an offhand sort of way. I roll my eyes; this is why his penchant for unnecessarily advanced classes is such a pain in my ass. Still, I give him another kiss—this one on the lips—before my cue comes and I saunter out onto stage. And it still doesn’t occur to me that he might be lying.

82 days sober Ben isn’t willing to let me jerk him off, but he does offer to make me food while I drink all the coffee he has no reason to keep in his apartment and quiz him about the Lost Generation. It’s arguably better, especially when I realize he’s making gnocchi. I make up a few verses of a song I’ve entitled “Ben Deserves A Blowjob A Day For Making Me Delicious Treats,” then follow the song with a companion piece called “I’m Going To Marry You, You Food Network Bastard (If Things Don’t Work Out With Travis).” The singing is mostly so I won’t have to start studying yet, but along the way, I manage to get distracted by the Christmas cards taped to the back of their door. “Dude,” I say, “I’m pretty sure these are the most Jesus-y Christmas cards ever.” “That’s because they’re all from people at my church,” Ben replies. “I guess my mom gave my new address to the ladies in her prayer group, or whatever? I don’t know, I mostly just put them up to annoy Alex. There are some non-religious ones in there, too—” “Uh, yeah there are, because this is definitely a fucking Hanukkah card from my mom,” I say, staring at the succinct Happy holidays, Ben and Alex. Sincerely, Marian on the inside of the card. Who the hell writes ‘sincerely’ on their holiday cards? “Why does my mom have your address? More importantly, why did I not get a fucking card? I’m her only child, she should—wow, this is really dorky. Who’s it from?” Ben takes two steps out of the kitchen to see that I’m gesturing to a bright green card that’s decorated with a sketch of Edgar Allan Poe. On his shoulder, a raven in a Santa hat is saying, Poe! Poe! Poe! Ben laughs. “Oh, that one. I have no idea? It just kind of showed up in the mail a week or so ago, no signature or return address or whatever. I’m pretty sure it’s from Travis. He’s enough of a loser to think that’s funny.” “So are you, apparently,” I say. I take out my phone and send a quick text to Travis; did you secretly send ben a dumbass edgar allan poe christmas card, you fuckin loser? Only a minute or two later, he responds with a photo of a stack of the Poe cards on a table, along with the words, You mean these? Definitely not from me. I grin and shove my phone back into my pocket before flinging myself back down at the kitchen table and starting to sing my made-up songs again. I get less than a verse out before I’m interrupted. “I really wish you’d asked me to tutor you a year ago,” Ben sighs, chopping up something he tells me is spinach, but which could be moss, for all I know about cooking. “I wouldn’t have decided to become a teacher, if I’d known that teaching people was so goddamn irritating.” I shrug. “I’m assuming that you won’t be cooking for your students every day, though. So, I’m pretty sure you can avoid the song thing. But, um, speaking of ‘avoiding’… uh. Alex?” “Holy segue, Batman,” Ben says flatly. When my only response is to hum a signal to continue, he clears his throat and says, “He’s out with some of his friends from SCSU. He, um… I guess he’s been doing that a lot the past couple of days. I sort of have been, too—hanging out with people from Yale, instead of being here. It’s been kind of awkward.” I stretch back in my seat so that I can cuff him around the head. “I thought you were given explicit instructions not to make it awkward.” “I’m not the one making it awkward, alright?” he snaps, shoving me back. “He’s the one who—look, we talked about it. And it fucking sucked, because he tried to convince me to want him back. I don’t feel that way about him, and I care about the guy too much to pretend I do. But he said I should give it a chance, I should think about what it would be like to date someone who really loved me. Said it’s been hard to spend the last few years watching me always go for guys who don’t love me. Guys who just want to hit it and quit it—” “Please tell me he didn’t really say ‘hit it and quit it’ while trying to seduce you,” I choke out, practically inhaling a mouthful of coffee as I do so. Ben waves his spinach knife in a pretty alarming fashion. “Oh, he really fucking did. The whole collection of rhymes, actually. Hit it and quit it. Fuck me and chuck me. Hump me and dump me.” I bury my face in my hands. “I don’t—how is it possible that I’ve slept with someone who uses the phrase ‘hump and dump’? I’m pretty sure I used to have standards. We can blame that whole thing on the relapse, right? Whatever, so not the point. But, Ben. Hey. You know that’s not true, right? I mean, by all accounts, Ethan was a douche, and uh, obviously Jamie’s not about to invite you home to meet the parents—” Ben makes a circular motion with his hand, clearly signaling me to move right the hell along, “—but you and Travis had something that was… annoyingly difficult to get in the middle of, if we’re being honest. And you and I were never really a couple, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t care about you. Plus, you know, you’re definitely my favorite ex-boyfriend to hang out with and the easiest to get along with, hands down.” “My competition being the stepbrother who spurned your advances for nearly a year, and the psychopath you’ve got a restraining order against? I’m touched, really.” He dumps the chopped spinach into the pan of gnocchi and slaps a lid on it before turning to me and giving a jerky shrug. “Alex says I need to stop dating guys who treat me like shit, and start dating guys who will respect me, and be faithful to me, and take me out, and just… generally not be assholes. He wanted me to consider the idea of dating somebody ‘decent’ to me. His words.” I cross my arms over my chest and raise a questioning eyebrow towards Alex’s room, even though I know he’s not in it. What fucking right does he have to say any of that about me, the most recent of Ben’s exes? It’s like he’s completely forgotten that he just finished up a six-month period of stringing Jamie along, wanting him around but never wanting all of him, hooking up with random chicks at parties he’d invited Jamie to, treating him like a piece of ass even after he realized that Jamie was starting to get invested. At least I was a good friend to Ben, even if I wasn’t a good boyfriend. “So, are you considering it?” I finally ask. “No,” Ben says immediately. “And I told him as much when he said that, because the more he spoke, the more apparent it became that Alex isn’t really in love with me. He’s—he’s in love with this idea of me.” I’ve already got one eyebrow raised, so it doesn’t take much effort to twitch the other one upward. Ben lets out a frustrated groan and drags his hands through his hair. “I don’t want a guy whose dream relationship can be described as ‘respectable’ and ‘decent.’ Look, I don’t know what it was that first got to you about Travis, but for me, it was that sharpness he has about him. The guy’s got like, the biggest fucking attitude problem in the world, and he’s not afraid to let it out in these wonderfully barbed comments, and that—his wit. That’s what I liked about him. If he’d really been the wholesome sort of golden boy he looks like, I wouldn’t have fallen for him. Same with you. Not that I fell for you, obviously, but the most attractive thing about you is all the jagged edges you’ve got. And the fact that Alex thinks I want something safer and neater and easier… all that does is prove to me that he doesn’t understand anything about what I want in a relationship.” I stand and head for the pan, peeking under the lid of it. Ben elbows me out of the way, but he must be satisfied with what he finds under the lid, because he gives the tiny dumplings a quick stir, then spoons some into a set of bowls, one for me and one for himself. We both sit down and start to eat, and it’s several minutes before I can actually make myself stop long enough to reply, “Guessing he didn’t love hearing that.” “Not even a little bit, no. He said it was fine. That it was up to me, and hey, I’d know better than anybody what I was looking for in a relationship. But things have sucked ass since then, and right now, it’s kind of better if we just ignore each other. Or, at least, ignore the conversation.” I grin and tap the tines of my fork against the lip of my bowl. “Is this your way of telling me you’d rather babble on about F. Scott Fitzgerald than tell me more about your feelings?” “Are you reading Fitzgerald?” he asks, widening his eyes at me like that will distract me from our previous topic. “The Great Gatsby’s one of my favorite books. Well, favorite school-assigned books.” I snort. “Doesn’t surprise me—hang on, you can probably answer this for me. Was Fitzgerald on our team? Because that book is probably the gayest thing I’ve ever read in my life, and that’s including four years of sexts from Jamie.” “How is The Great Gatsby ‘the gayest thing’? Please, I honestly want to hear this, because from what Travis has told me, you spend seventy-five percent of every English class telling your teacher how gay every character is.” “Nick Carraway is a fag with a capital ‘f.’ That’s ‘f’ as in ‘fucks dudes.’ And I do not do this for every character, just the super gay ones. Like the guys in Merchant of Venice. This is like, a running argument between T and I, so if you could just settle it for me now, that’d be great. Bassanio and Antonio? Total butt-buddies, right?” I from down at my now empty bowl, then make grabby hands for the pan of gnocchi. “More.” Ben sneers. “Get it yourself, asshole. And… okay. None of the questions you’ve asked or comments you’ve made have been relevant to your homework. So, I’m going to answer those, and then we’re going to talk about T.S. Eliot, okay?” I make a face, but nod. “Alright. First of all, Fitzgerald had an incredibly fucked-up marriage with a woman named Zelda. So, no, he probably wasn’t gay, but if it makes you feel better about your… interpretations, he once got his dick out for Hemingway in a hotel men’s room. And it’s rumored that Zelda was worried that they were having an affair. I suppose you can take from that what you will. Second comment was about Nick Carraway being gay—really, really not the point of the novel, dude. It might be true—most of the scenes with him and Mr. McKee are pretty suggestive—and it might not be true, but that’s not even a little bit what the novel’s about, and your teacher will never ask you about it. Third topic was what, Merchant of Venice?” I nod, too busy chewing the lovely, delicious food to speak. “Open to interpretation. You need to take into account that human sexuality wasn’t treated the same way in Elizabethan England as it is now, so viewing their relationship through a modern scope is obviously going to give you a different impression. But my personal opinion? Definitely fucking. Come on, ‘I think he only loves the world for him?’ Or that bullshit in Act Four—‘life itself, my wife, and all the world are not with me esteemed above thy life. I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all here to this devil, to deliver you.’ There’s only one reason a man would rank another man above his new wife, and it’s not because they’re just close friends.” “Anyone ever tell you that it’s super creepy when you do that quoting thing?” I say, pulling out my phone to text Travis, ben says you’re wrong about merchant of venice, dudes are totally fucking, HA. Ben opens his mouth to reply, but I spear a few more of the gnocchi with my fork and cut across him, “Seriously, why aren’t you on Iron Chef like, right the fuck now?” “I’m pretty sure you need to be an actual chef to be on Iron Chef,” he says, shrugging, “and not just some teenager who memorized all the family recipes because his mom used to force him to help with her catering company.” My phone buzzes on the table between us, but considering the way Ben glances at it, makes a face, and doesn’t hand it to me, I’m not surprised to discover that it’s from Jamie, not Travis. I am, however, surprised to discover that it says, What time do I need to have him back to you so he won’t miss the show? I blink and send back a few question marks, because what he’s said makes no sense; we hadn’t been talking, let along talking about anyone. His response is a picture. His response is a picture of Travis. His response is a picture of Travis sprawled out on the couch in the middle of Jamie’s loft in the city, his bare feet kicked up onto the arm of the couch and a paper in his hands. He looks so relaxed; he looks pleased. His phone is visible on the coffee table right near him, even though he hasn’t texted me back. And I don’t—why the fuck isn’t he wearing shoes? That must mean he’s been there for a while now, long enough to get comfortable. I just wish I knew how comfortable. It’s like everything I thought I was certain of is crashing down around me while I sit in Ben’s kitchen, so suddenly and so thoroughly that I can’t think straight. I force myself to take a shaky but steadying breath. No. Travis and I aren’t together, we’re not exclusive, but he wouldn’t hook up with my best friend. And Jamie wouldn’t hook up with the only guy I’ve ever loved. Neither of them would do that to me, I know this, but there’s a sick burst of jealousy inside of me, which is so much worse, because this isn’t me. I’m not a jealous, possessive kind of guy, not really. If this were anyone else, I wouldn’t think twice about it. God, if it were anyone else, Jamie could’ve sent me a picture of his dick in the guy’s mouth, and I would’ve laughed about it. But it’s Travis. I try so fucking hard not to get jealous, I try not to act like he’s mine because he keeps telling me he’s not, but… I just don’t understand why he’s not wearing shoes. I don’t understand why he’s on Jamie’s couch. I don’t understand why he’s in Jamie’s apartment. I don’t understand why he’s in New York. I don’t understand why he didn’t text me back. And I don’t understand why he lied and told me he couldn’t hang out with me because he’s doing schoolwork, when he’s very clearly not. “You alright?” Ben asks. I look up. He’s frowning, glancing back and forth between my face and the phone. I smile and nod, but say nothing, and the phone buzzes with another text from Jamie. What time do I need to kick this kid off my sofa and send him back to Connecticut? I refuse to acknowledge that my fingers are shaking as I type, why the fuck is he on your sofa in the first place? There’s a brief pause, then-- …has he not talked to you?he talks to me every day. did you have a specific topic in mind? I reply. His response is an uncharacteristically panicked-seeming, Alright then! Wow. Glad to see that communicative failures are still boundless in the town of Lakewood. Not getting involved in this, forget I said a word. I’m sure he’ll talk to you about it when he gets back to town. He doesn’t, though. When I come up to Travis before curtain that night, right before our final performance, the first words out of my mouth are, “How’d your school stuff go?” Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. But he doesn’t. He smiles brightly and lies through his fucking teeth, “It went fine, thanks.” “What class was it for?” I press on. He shrugs. “It wasn’t for any class we have together.” My chest feels suddenly tight around my hammering heart. Why isn’t he telling me he went to New York? Jamie said he would. Jamie said he’d talk to me about this. Why isn’t he telling me, why is he lying, why is he doing this? He frowns. “You okay?” I nod. “Nervous about tonight?” “Last show,” I manage to make myself say. “I don’t wanna fuck it up.” He leans up to give me a quick peck on the lips—nothing I have time to reciprocate, nothing real—and says, “You won’t, G. You’ll be perfect.” I’m not. That night is my worst performance, hands down. I miss two cues, I fumble a couple lines, I’m flat on a lyric in “Sandra Dee,” I nearly forget the choreography for half my dances. It’s horrible, and embarrassing, and I don’t have the energy to pretend it’s not. The instant we’ve wrapped the last song, I disappear backstage without even bothering to stick around for bows. I’m out of my costume, into my street clothes, out of the building, and into my car before anyone else has even made it off stage. Part of me wants to drive away right now, but I can’t—I’m supposed to give Travis’ lying, possibly cheating ass a ride home. Or to my house. I had hoped it would be my house, but that’s seeming increasingly unlikely, considering how he seems to have changed his mind about me already. Ten days. It’s been ten days since we kissed, and he’s already getting tired of me. He’s blowing me off. He’s lying to me. He’s done, or he’s bored, and he’s so dangerously close to not being mine anymore, and I don’t know how to stop this from happening. I squeeze my eyes shut and lean my forehead against the steering wheel, taking slow, deep breaths that ache through my whole body. Eventually, there is a sharp rap of knuckles against my window. I don’t lift my head, but I do turn my face to see who it is. Travis, of course. I turn the key in the ignition and lower the window. Instantly, he drops an elbow onto it and crowds in close. “Are you okay?” “Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask, but it feels a lot like I’m saying, you tell me. “You walked out before final curtain, dude. You missed your bow, you missed Ms. Markland’s big thank-you speech, you missed—oh. These are for you.” He leans back and suddenly, the window’s full of a huge, cellophane-wrapped bouquet of flowers. My muscles are barely working, but a few seconds of silently screaming at myself is enough to get me to reach up and accept the flowers so that Travis can lean back down. He shrugs, says, “We had some cash leftover in the crew budget, so we used it to get flowers for direction and choreography—Ms. Markland, Nate, and Annabelle—and the four main cast members—you, Joss, John, and Christine.” “Thanks,” I say. “Garen.” He’s actually starting to look upset now, but I don’t know why. If he doesn’t care enough about me to tell me the truth about what he was doing today, then why would he care about what’s going on with me tonight? I don’t say anything. He reaches in and squeezes my shoulder. “I don’t understand what’s wrong. Can you please talk to me?” I lick my too-dry lips and say hoarsely, “I did a really shitty job tonight. It was the last performance, and I was totally out of it. I fucked up everything.” “No, you didn’t,” he lies, leaning further into the car to kiss my cheek. “There were some off moments, sure, but everyone in the cast has had a few of those. There hasn’t been a perfect show this entire run. But you still did really well, and you’re still incredibly talented.” Then why don’t you want me anymore? “It’s been a long night,” I say, turning my eyes forward to the windshield. “Do you still want me to drive you home?” “I thought we were going to go to your house,” he says. I can hear the frown in his voice, even though I’m not looking at him. I nod. “We can do that. Get in the car.” The drive to my house is silent. My knuckles are white from how tightly I’m gripping the gear shift; Travis can’t exactly hold my hand, but he does keep his fingers wrapped loosely around my wrist for the duration of the trip. Neither of us says anything as I park the car and lead the way to the front door, then through to the door down to my room. Only when we’re at the foot of the stairs do I turn to him. “I need—” is all I get out before I have to break off and clear my throat, because who gives a fuck about what I need right now? I try again, “I’m going to take a shower, get all this shit off my face and out of my hair or whatever.” I make a half-hearted gesture towards the stage makeup and hair gel I didn’t bother to remove before leaving the school. Travis nods, and my next gesture is in the direction of the bedroom. “You can, um… just go in, I guess. I’ll be there in a bit.” His eyes flicker briefly towards the bathroom door, like he’s wondering why I’m not inviting him to join me, but he nods and heads into my room without protest. Thank god. It’s embarrassing, but I need a few minutes alone to figure out what I’m going to do, and the shower is kind of my only chance for real privacy. I strip down, step under the spray of hot water, and start scrubbing at my skin with the makeup-removing soap that Annabelle loaned me for after performances—though, in all hilarious honesty, I probably could’ve just asked Ben what he uses to take his eyeliner off every night. I need a plan. I need a good plan, I need to find some way to make Travis talk to me about what’s going on with him. There’s a voice in the back of my head that’s doing a dead-on impression of Doc Howard--Garen, just ask him. Talk to him, like an adult. But the problem with that piece-of-shit game plan is that I can’t talk to him, not now that I know he might just lie. Besides, what the fuck can I say? Am I really that annoying that you have to pretend to do schoolwork just to get away from me? Did you go to New York because you suddenly like my best friend more than you like me? When I lose you this time, will it be for good? Fucking hell, I need a plan. Words are obviously out of the question, so it’s—it’ll have to be action. And that’s fine, because I’m good with action. I might not know what I could say to him that would convince him to keep wanting me, but I’ve spent years learning how to do things that can prove I’m worth hanging onto. After all, what’s the point of having a body like this if it can’t make someone stay? Scrubbed clean, I cut the water off and step out of the shower. The blue and gray plaid sweats I wore to bed last night are dangling over the towel rack—I pull them on, not caring when they cling awkwardly to my still-damp skin. I should probably dry off, but being in here and not knowing if Travis has gotten bored and left already is making me anxious, so I just shake my hair out like a dog would, painting the mirror with water droplets, and head for my room. Travis is sprawled out on my bed, his shoes, jacket, and hoodie all removed. He’s lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows as he thumbs through—I can’t be sure, because he’s not facing me, but I think it’s the procedure for the trial law competition we’re both going to be doing in just a few weeks. Other than exams, that competition is the last big event I’ve got before I’m out of Lakewood and back in New York, and I really don’t want to be reminded of it right now. I throw myself down on the bed next to him, grab the booklet from him, and fling it across the room. He laughs. “I’m sorry, have you not gotten enough attention tonight?” “No,” I say. “Maybe you should’ve stuck around for your standing ovation, then,” he says, crowding close enough to curl up against me and nudge my jaw with the tip of his nose. When I don’t say anything, he pecks a kiss to my chin. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, you know. It was a good performance, and you—” That’s all I allow him to say before my instinct to get my hands on him and fix this kicks in. I snag the front of his t-shirt and haul him up into a kiss that he reciprocates as eagerly as he always does. Something about that sets off another spark of confusion in me, because really, I’d assumed this would take some convincing. If he actually still wanted to be with me, none of this would even be necessary. He slips an arm around my neck and parts his lips, but when I reach down to touch him, he catches my wrist, shakes his head, and mumbles, “Can you—not yet. Just kiss me again, okay?” “Okay,” I say, and I do kiss him, even though it’s not okay. Because this isn’t the first time this has happened—me trying to touch him, and him shrugging away from my hands, putting me off because he’s still soft. The first time it happened last week, he’d been humiliated, stammering out apologies and trying to explain to me that it’s an unfortunate side effect of the medication his psychiatrist prescribes; his antidepressants completely kill his sex drive, which is why he and I only used to fuck once a week when we were having our first go as a couple, why he had no qualms about dating Ben for months before they did anything other than kiss. When he’d told me, I’d been understanding about it. I’d given him half-truths about how getting sober had messed with my dick activities for a while—tactfully choosing not to mention that it’d mostly been the ‘getting pinned down and fucked into a mattress while I was pretty much unconscious because of how stoned I was’ part that had made getting hard a challenge for me—and told him that it was always up to him. If he wanted to just hang out or snuggle or whatever because he wasn’t in the mood, we could do that. If it just meant we had to spend more time on foreplay before he was good to go, we’d do that. I was understanding about it. But now I think what I’m understanding is that the issue isn’t his meds, or his body chemistry, or his depression—it’s me. Or, it’s him, and how much he doesn’t want me. That’s okay, though, because maybe he doesn’t want this me, but I’ve got so many different versions of myself stashed away, and even after all this time, there are parts of me he hasn’t had yet. I’ve still got one card left to play. It’s the thing that distracted Dave from hitting me sometimes. It’s the thing that convinced Seth to give me coke when I had no cash for it. It’s the thing that made Alex finally admit to being bi and dating Jamie. And right now, with Travis so close to being gone, it’s the only chance I have to make him want to stay. I push at his shoulder until he rolls onto his back, then sling a leg across him to seat myself comfortably on his lap. I’m a little surprised—in a good way, I guess—to discover that he’s actually half-hard already. Not hard enough to make a big deal out of, but it’s something I can work with. Something I can rock against as I say, “Tell me what you want.” “You know what I want,” he laughs, but I really, really don’t. I give a faint hum, just to let him know that his answer isn’t good enough, and he sighs. His fingertips are brushing across the tops of my thighs, touching just lightly enough to almost tickle. I squirm a little, and he slides his hands up to palm my waist. He tries to tug me down to kiss him, but I resist, and he rolls his eyes a little before he finally says, “I want you to fuck me.” “I don’t think that’s true,” I say, as calmly as I can. He shoots me a quizzical half-smile, but the expression slips easily into an eyes-closed, lips-parted sigh when I grind my ass down against his hard-on. I duck down to brace an elbow on the pillow next to his head as I say, in little more than a whisper, “I don’t think you want me to fuck you. I think you want to fuck me.” His fingers tighten against my skin, and he hesitates for a telling moment before he shakes his head and says, “No. You don’t—that’s not what we do together. And I like what we do together, I want you to—” I lift up so that I can slip a hand down the front of his jeans and into his boxers, stroking him until he stops speaking. I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, sure that he can feel my only-semi-forced smile, and say, “God, I love your cock. It’s so fucking perfect, when I’ve got my hand on it, or my mouth on it.” None of these are lies. The lie comes next. “I want to know how it’d feel in my ass. Bet you’d make it so fucking good, T.” I manage a shivering half-twist against him again, like even the thought of it is getting me off. Pity I couldn’t remember how to act this well when I was onstage tonight; would’ve been a hell of a good show. Lying this close to him, I can feel his throat move as he swallows before saying softly, “If that’s really what you want to do—if you’re positive, G, only if you’re really—we can do that. We can do whatever you want, but I thought you didn’t like bottoming.”I like you, I can’t tell him. I like keeping you, every little part of you that you’ll let me have, and I like the idea of you still wanting me even when I leave in a few weeks. I like you more than I like topping. I like you more than I like my dignity, and my honor, and my sanity, apparently. Not a single one of those words can come out of my mouth right now. So I kiss him quickly on the lips and lie around my most genuine smile, “I like it sometimes. Just take your time—it’s been a while, and I’m, you know, a delicate fuckin’ flower or whatever.” My imitation of a sudden switch to a good mood must be convincing, because he smiles into our next kiss. And he does take his time—we make out for at least another half hour, while he carefully strips us both of our clothing and I try to pretend that what’s about to happen isn’t about to happen. That illusion goes right out the window when he eventually rolls over to retrieve lube and a condom from my nightstand drawer. That’s when I pretty much check out. I… I’m making noise, I think, and I’m definitely moving, rocking back onto his hand as he works me open with slick fingers, but my mind is racing desperately in any other direction. I’m thinking about the school play, I’m trying to figure out when I’m going to have time to do the rest of my English reading before class tomorrow afternoon, I’m composing mental packing lists for the move to New York. Anything but let myself think about what’s happening, because if I think about it, I’m going to lose my mind. He preps me carefully, using an almost ridiculous amount of lube and sucking my dick while he presses his fingers into me, like that’ll distract me. It’s only a few minutes before he’s able to find the spot inside of me that makes me arch up off the bed and whimper like a bitch. He smiles—or, smiles as much as somebody can when he’s got a cock in his mouth, and repeats the movement, like it’s a good thing. And it’s not. It sends involuntary waves of pleasure through my body, but it’s a purely biological reaction, and it’s not making my heart or my mind feel any better or safer. Fuck. Even Dave managed to get me to this point a few times, but just because my traitorous body reacts to something doesn’t mean that my soul doesn’t feel like it’s about to crack open under the strain of hating this. Travis must mistake my shuddering for a positive reaction, which is good, in a way, because he takes it as a signal to pull his fingers out. He’s kneeling between my spread legs, sitting back on his heels. He picks up the condom packet, but pauses before tearing it open. He asks, “Are you positive that this is what you want to do?” I’m positive that it’s what I don’t want to do. “Yeah,” I say, snatching the wrapper out of his hands and tearing it open. I’m proud of how little I fumble while rolling it down onto his dick, even though my hands are shaking like I’m having a seizure. “I’m positive, babe, come on.” And alright, here’s the thing about dicks: they never seem that big, until they’re in your ass, and then they seem fucking gargantuan. Travis is the most gorgeous person on the planet, but it’s not like he’s got a huge piece. He’s average. Here and now, though, when he’s carefully pushing it into me, inch by inch, I feel dangerously close to dying. The second he has bottomed out, he fumbles to curve a hand over my jaw and draw me into a kiss. “Okay?” he murmurs. His voice is strained, like he’s trying to force himself to hold in any sounds of enjoyment until he’s sure that I’m into it. That’s what I should be focusing on right now. Getting him off, making him feel good, earning him. I must be too silent, because his brow creases, and his voice is a little sharper as he eases most of the way back out and asks, “Are you okay? Is it—can I move?” And it’s completely fucked up, but right now, all I can think about is the fact that the only dude he’s ever topped before is Ben. Ben, who likes getting fingered, likes getting fucked; Ben, who is shy and self-deprecating and stuck in his own head all the fucking time, right up until he gets a dick in him, and then he takes off his metaphorical glasses, has some sort of sexy-librarian meltdown, and starts taking it like God created him expressly for the purpose of bottoming. It’s too much to compete with, but it’s a starting point for an imitation. I thread a hand into Travis’ hair, and when I speak, it’s Ben’s words that come out of my mouth, crackling from my lips the same way he’d snapped them at me the first time I fucked him at Alex’s house last fall. “Stop treating me like I’m a doll, and fuck me like you mean it.” Travis appears momentarily stunned, like he knows the words aren’t mine, but before he can figure out what I’m attempting to pull off, I hitch my legs high up around his hips, dig my feet into the small of his back, and jerk upward until he’s all the way inside me again. And holy fuck that was a bad idea, and it hurts, and my throat feels like it’s closing up, refusing to take in any more oxygen, but Travis’ eyes flutter shut and he lets out a very soft, “Oh, god.” “That’s it,” I manage to rasp out, doing my best to rock with him. He’s still moving slowly—not as slow as before, but still not anything rough enough to justify the way I’m shaking—and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s trying to get me used to the stretch, or because he’s trying to find a good angle for me. Either way, it’s not working. I’m too tense and terrified for this to get any easier, and I’m gone, in the worst way. For all I know, he could be hitting my prostate dead-on with every thrust, but I can’t feel it. I can’t feel anything, really; it’s like I’ve gone numb from the waist down. But I wait. I wait for the horror and embarrassment and nervousness to subside, I wait for this to turn into what Jamie’s been swearing for four years it can be when it’s done right—I wait for it to feel like making a connection. I wait to feel like we’re doing something nice, something intimate, something good. None of that happens. Instead, I’m treated to nothing but a steadily increasing sense of panic. I’ve been kinda cupping my dick with one hand, trying to make it seem like I’m jerking off even though all I’m really doing is trying to make sure Travis doesn’t realize that I’ve gone completely soft. The feeling is too much now, though, and I shift both my hands up to his hair, dragging him close enough to press our foreheads together. I need the contact to ground me, because my breathing is starting to get too shaky, even to my own ears. My fakeass moans have ebbed away now, and all that’s left is the stuttering gasp that sounds too much like the panic attack I think it’s about to become. Every inhale is nothing more than an exaggerated hitch, and I’m not sure there’s any exhale at all. Suddenly, Travis stops moving, then straightens his arms a little to pull back enough to see my face. “You’re—Garen, am I hurting you? Am I—what’s wrong? You have to tell me what’s wrong, I don’t—” “Nothing’s wrong,” I try to say, but it comes out too high-pitched, like a fucking whimper, and my arms won’t stop shaking where I’ve wound them around his shoulders. He glances at the muscles in my arms, and the way they’re practically vibrating—I try to smile, try to distract him by moving my hands up to frame his face again so that I can pull him closer. “It’s—I’m fine, it’s fine, I promise, I’m fine.” “Nobody says they’re fine that many times and really means it,” he says shortly, locking his elbows so that he has pulled as far away from me as he can. “This isn’t working. We have to stop.” I fling a leg around him, digging my heel into his ass so he can’t pull out any further. He shoots me another of those startled looks, but I just shake my head and yank him down on top of me so that I can bury my face against the side of his neck as I pretty much gasp, “No. No, no, don’t stop. I can do this, I can handle it, please keep going, I promise I can make it good for you, I—” “Garen, stop. You’re not turned on, you’re not enjoying this, and I-I think you might be having some kind of breakdown right now. So, can you please move your leg so that I can pull out? Because this isn’t working. And I want to stop.” He wants to stop. He’s asking me to stop. I need to fucking stop. Slowly, I straighten out my leg; it feels like my bones are grinding together as I move. Travis reaches down to hold the condom in place as he eases out—and fuck, I hate that sensation, the few seconds of being too exposed right after someone pulls out of me. He doesn’t even bother to get up and dispose of the condom properly; he just tears it off and tosses it right on the floor, moving only enough to slide out from between my legs and curl against my side. “Tell me what you need,” he pleads, and it takes all of my willpower—and, honestly, my continued inability to breathe properly—to stop myself from snapping, I need you to fuck off. And I can’t stop myself from rolling over onto my stomach so that I can bury my face in the pillows. This was my last chance. This was the only thing I had left that might make him stay, and I fucked it up. Still, I’m not someone who gives up easily, especially when it comes to Travis, so I take a deep breath and say, “I’m s-sorry. I just need a minute. I need—just a few seconds, I swear, and then you can—we can try again, I’ll be better this time, I’ll—” “Uh, or we can not do that again ever in our lives,” Travis interrupts, like I’m a fucking idiot for even suggesting it. “Garen, it’s… I really appreciate that you tried to do that for me, but I don’t want to—” “I’m fine! I swear I just need you to give me a minute, and then—m-maybe if we try it like this? I-If you’re behind me, and it’s—that’s what worked with Alex, when he and I—and it’s just, I can be quiet like this, if you’re f-fucking me from behind, and you won’t have to look at me, and we—” “Oh my god, do you even realize what you’re saying? Are you hearing the words that are coming out of your mouth?” Travis says, and fuck, fuck, fuck, he sounds like he’s going to cry. Numbly, one of my hands flops out to the side, searching around until I make contact with his skin, trying to calm him down even though I’m the one who’s going crazy. It’s nearly ten minutes before I’m able to say, “I-I just wanted—fuck.” I swallow; Travis soothes me with a palm between my shoulders blades and what feels like a hundred soft kisses pressed to my shoulder. Eventually, I can breathe enough to finish in a barely audible voice, “I just wanted to give you a reason to stay.” There’s a pause and then he says slowly, “Was I going somewhere?” “Yeah,” I whisper, “and you were lying to me about it.” He goes still, but doesn’t try to defend himself or talk his way out of it. That’s good, I guess, him being done lying. But it doesn’t really make me feel any better. I turn my head ever so slightly, just enough to peek at him. His expression is tense, nervous; I stop peeking. “James told me you went to New York.” “Did he tell you why?” Travis asks carefully, beginning to smooth his hand over my spine again. “No. And he sure as hell didn’t tell me why you lied and said you were doing school stuff, or why you lied the other day and said you had some meeting just so you didn’t have to hang out with me, or—” “Hey, hey,” he cuts me off. “Neither of those things were lies, alright? Not explaining every last detail of something that is too complicated to get into at the time is not the same thing as lying. I don’t lie to you, G.” “Yes you do,” I say miserably. “And the worst part? I don’t even have the fucking right to ask you to tell me the truth, because I know—y-you keep telling me, you keep saying we’re not together, and I don’t—I know I’m not anything to you, and I know we’re not together like we used to be before I went away, and I’ve got no right to say you can’t lie to me, because—” My words stumble into silence when Travis suddenly sits up and grabs at my shoulders, shoving and prodding at me until he manages to turn me onto my back and haul me into a sitting position. For the first time in the year I’ve known him, I don’t want to look at him, but he grabs my face between his hands and makes me, like he wants to be positive that I know he’s talking to me when he says, “Let me make sure I’m understanding this correctly. You forced yourself to bottom for me in an attempt to make me want to commit to you, because you think that I’ve been lying to you about where I’m going and what I’m doing so that I won’t have to spend time with you?” I don’t respond, because I’m beginning to sense that anything I say right now will probably just make me sound even crazier than he clearly already thinks I am. My silence is enough for him. Or, it’s too much, because he scrambles off the bed and starts gathering his clothes. I quietly try not to die. And then he flings my sweatpants at me. A pair of socks. A t-shirt, a hoodie, my leather jacket. When I don’t move, he sighs and says, “Garen, get dressed. If you want to know the full story of what’s going on—I will tell you, I would’ve told you earlier, if I’d known you were freaking out over this—but we have to go to my house. There are things I need to get. You can pack a bag, if you want, because you’re staying over.” “We have school in the—” “Fuck school, alright?” he interrupts, zipping up his jeans with a little more vehemence than necessary. I can’t help but stare at him; it’s like somebody plucked my personality right out of me and stuffed it into his body instead. I manage to get my sweats and the hoodie on without standing up, and when he realizes how reluctant I am to leave the comfort of my bed, Travis crowds back in, kneeling on the edge of the mattress and calming me with kisses before he says, “Listen to me. We’re going to go to my house, and I’m going to explain everything to you—and I’m going to drive, because Christ, you’re still shaking. You’re going to stay over, because I’m not letting you drive yourself anywhere tonight, and because I like waking up with you. Tomorrow, we’re going to skip school, I’m going to take you to breakfast, and we’re going to talk to each other, like adults, Garen, because I’m pretty sure we’re going to have a lot to talk about after what I tell you when we get to my place.” Getting me to actually leave my house turns out to be more of an ordeal than I think Travis had anticipated. I’m still sluggish and shaking, and it takes about ten minutes for me—dressed like an ass, in fucking pajamas, combat boots, and a leather jacket—to be ready to leave. Trav scribbles a note to my dad and leaves it on the counter before herding me out into the passenger seat of my car. He’s still a little awkward when it comes to shifting, but we make it to his house without crashing. And of fucking course, when he lets us in and directs me upstairs, Evelyn is standing in the hallway, frozen outside her bedroom door and gaping at me like she doesn’t know whether to call the cops. All I can think about right now is the fact that the last time I was standing in this hallway, she was snapping at me to hurry up, get my shit, and get out of her house. The time before that, I was sobbing on the floor while Travis held me and Dad put his gun back in the safe. Not exactly my fondest memories. Behind me, Travis clears his throat and says, “Garen’s going to spend the night here, if that’s okay.” There is an unspoken, pointed addition of, I’ll leave with him if you tell him to go. “I don’t like you having friends over on school nights,” Evelyn says stiffly. “It’s important to me, Mom. And it won’t happen again. Just tonight,” Travis says. Evelyn eyes me; I try to remain completely still. Thirty seconds pass, and then she snaps, “Don’t forget to take your medication, and don’t stay up past midnight. You have school in the morning.” She disappears into her room, and I finally exhale. Travis braces a hand against the small of my back and gives me a gentle shove into his bedroom. It’s exactly the same as it was six months ago, when I still lived here. I don’t know why I expected it to be different. All the furniture is where it’s always been, and he still doesn’t remember to close his closet door or toss his clothes in the hamper instead of onto the floor. The only differences seem to be that the stack of books on the desk is taller, and there are a few pictures tacked to the wall above his headboard. He gives me another push, this time towards the bed. I collapse onto the very edge of the mattress, then shuffle back until I’m seated almost on the pillows. “Just—hang on. Give me a minute to find—” He trails off without explaining what exactly he’s trying to find, but it’s apparently somewhere in the mess of papers in his desk drawers. While he searches, I turn my focus to the pictures on the wall. Of the seven pictures, three are of him and Ben, which I guess makes sense, considering they dated for four months. That’s obviously when these were taken, because they’re hanging off each other in all of them—Ben on Travis’ lap, or the two of them holding hands, or Travis’ arm slung casually across Ben’s shoulders while they’re curled up on a couch together. One of the non-Ben pictures seems to be a group shot of the entire stage crew for Grease. Next to that, there’s a strip of tape holding up just a corner of a picture that seems to have been ripped down, and I’d be willing to bet anything that it was a picture of him and Joss. Another of the pictures is of him and his sister, taken in front of what looks like a college dorm, probably when she was dropped off for her freshman year. There are pictures of me. None of us together, because I’m not sure those even exist, but there’s one he took when I wasn’t looking on Halloween—I’m wearing my platypus costume and playing beer pong, and Ben and Jamie are heckling me from the other end of the table. The last picture is of me. Just me, alone, not really doing anything. I can’t even tell where or when it was taken; the only indication of a timeline is the fact that my lip ring is missing, but the hole is still visible, which must mean that it was snapped sometime over the last month or two, once I’d gotten to the point where I could take it out for a day or two without worrying about it closing up. I’m not looking at the camera—I don’t even seem to realize there is a camera—but I’m laughing, smile wide and open. I don’t think I could smile that honestly right now if my life depended on it. There’s a soft thwack as Travis finally tosses a decently thick stack of papers onto the mattress in front of me. I glance at him, but he just gestures to the papers. I pick up the top sheet—a copy of his transcript. Even after all the pain and awkwardness of tonight, I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Yes, Travis, you’re very clever,” I say. “Straight A’s, all Advance Placement courses, you’re the best. Is there—” “Count my credits,” he interrupts. I don’t have to—there’s a neat little box in the bottom right corner of the paper. I stare at the number in it, then at Travis, who shrugs and continues, “Every regular class at LHS is worth three credits. Honors courses and science labs are worth four credits, AP courses are worth five. We’re supposed to take twelve courses—six in the fall, six in the spring—for each of our first two years, then ten courses—five in fall, five in spring—for each of our final two years. You need to have a hundred and thirty-two credits to graduate, but I—” “You already have a hundred and thirty-five,” I finish. “Or, you will, once this semester’s over. How is that possible?” Another shrug. “I’ve been taking all honors and AP courses since I started high school. It’s not—I mean, I don’t think the school really counts on people taking the sort of courseload I take? Everybody’s supposed to take eight full semesters here. But right after school started in September, Principal Hammond called me down to his office and said that, assuming I passed all my classes for the fall semester, I’d be eligible for early graduation.” I slump back against the pillows, paging through the next few sheets of paper. More transcripts, more paperwork. “I didn’t know this was even an option.” “They get somebody who can do that maybe once every five or six years. Hammond said the only thing I’d have to worry about would be taking my AP exams in May so that I can get college credit for them, but I could either come back and take the tests at LHS, or find another school willing to let me sit the exams with their seniors. And um—it wasn’t a sure thing. He said that it was up to me, if I wanted to graduate between semesters, or if I wanted to wait, take some more classes, maybe rack up more credits to transfer into whatever college I end up at. I told him I’d think about it, because I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do.” “Are you sure now?” I ask. He gestures to the stack of papers. “Keep reading. All of them.” I flip past the rest of the transcripts and grade reports until I get to a form that has been filled out, stamped, signed. Request for Early Graduation. It’s been approved. I turn to the next page. Travis’ acceptance letter from Columbia. My stomach lurches, and I can’t help but look up at him. He points back to the papers and repeats, urgently, nervously, “Keep reading.” I do. I keep reading, right through registration confirmation, and tuition deposits, and a list of classes registered for the spring semester. And then, weirdly, information from the Patton Military Academy Student Affairs office. And then Patton’s AP testing schedule. And then a list of addresses, all written in Jamie’s stupidly neat script. And then an application form. I swallow hard, tap the tip of my finger against that last page, and say hoarsely, “What’s this?” Travis takes the stack of papers out of my hands and sets it aside. He climbs onto the bed, facing me and tucking his legs under himself so that our knees are touching. He holds his hands out for mine, and I take them, but it’s another minute before I can make myself actually meet his eyes, and then another minute before he says, pronouncing each word carefully, “That’s a rental application for a place halfway between your new school and mine. The day after you told the rest of us about transferring, I called James and said I wanted to take him up on that offer to get a tour of Columbia from somebody who already goes there. I told him that I thought it would be a good idea for you to have more of a support system in New York than just him, because yeah, you guys have already lived together before, but it might still be smart for you to have another friend living nearby, even if I was in a dorm half an hour away.” “And he thought it was a good idea?” I say. “No,” Travis replies. “He thought that it would be a good idea for you and I to get a place together, instead of you and him.” I don’t say anything. My heart is going to beat right out of my chest, and I’m going to die, and Travis is telling me that Jamie says we should live together, and why didn’t anyone bother to clue me into this before right now? But Travis keeps talking, like he’s trying to win a debate I didn’t realize we were having. “I’m willing to live in a completely sober environment, and he’s not. If you live with him, he can’t guarantee that there won’t be something in the apartment that could hurt your sobriety, but I can. I’ll drink at parties or clubs, sure, but it’s just something to do, it’s not something I really get into. If we live together, there doesn’t have to be any booze in our place at all. It would be better; it’d be safer. Besides, James already has a really nice apartment right near his school, and he—I mean, based on what he was acting like when I was there, it seems like he’s kind of… particular? About the arrangement of his stuff, that is.” I grin and duck my head. “That’s such a polite way of saying ‘dude will gut you like a fish if you put a glass down without using a coaster.’ Like, I lived with him for three years, so I’m pretty much used to his OCD-weirdness, but yeah, I, uh… I don’t think he’d like moving. He’d do it, if he thought it was best for me. He’d do anything for me. But it would throw him off pretty badly, and I don’t want to do that to him.” “You don’t have to,” Travis says, with an awkward little nod towards the rental application. For a moment, we are both silent. Eventually, I collect my thoughts enough to say, “Yeah, I, um… sorry. I’m just sort of trying to wrap my head around the fact that I think you’re asking me to move in with you.” “I am.” “But we’re still not dating or anything, right?” I clarify. He frowns. “Right.” “We’re sleeping with each other, and neither of us really seems to be interested in sleeping with anyone else, and you’re graduating school a semester early so that you can follow me to my military school in New York, and you want us to live together,” I tick off on my fingers, “but we’re still not dating.” “Right,” he repeats, scowl deepening. “Not even a little bit?” “For fuck’s sake, dude, do you want to live with me or not?” “Uh, that depends on whether your piss-poor attitude is going to get its own room in the apartment, because your fucking sass sure as hell isn’t bunking with me,” I say, and he shoves me sideways onto the bed. I pull him down with me, because my heart is still beating too fast, and I still don’t feel okay—not after the night we’ve had—but Travis McCall just asked me to live with him, and right now, all I want to do is bury my face against the side of his neck and try to keep my freakout mostly silent. He seems content to let me process his offer at my own speed; for several minutes, he just lies there, dragging his fingers through the soft curls I didn’t bother to flat-iron after my shower. By the time I’ve actually prepared myself to speak, it’s been long enough that his hand has gone still again, and I think he might actually be dozing off. I lean up to brush a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, and he turns into it even though he’s barely awake. I pull back, and his eyes flutter open again. I nod once and say, “Okay. We’ll fill out the application in the morning.” “Okay,” he echoes, and I have to hide my face against his neck again, because his smile’s so bright that it hurts to look at him.

83 days sober

Waking up to find myself being enthusiastically spooned by Travis is easy. Convincing him that I’m over last night’s panic enough for us to exchange good-morning-blowjobs is easy. Grabbing a late breakfast together at the Lakewood Diner is easy, and filling out the rental application is easy, and figuring out the logistics of moving in together—the ideal time to sign a lease, whether to stock up on awesome but shit-quality Ikea furniture or invest in something that might last, how to bribe Ben into helping us move because he’s the only person we know who has access to a cargo van through his dad’s shop—is easy. There is nothing easy about calling the LRC to make an unexpected, late-afternoon appointment to speak with Doc Howard. When I walk into her office, the single-serving coffee machine is already on her desk, and my coffee mug is already full. Instead of flopping down in the chair, kicking my feet up, and generally taking up as much space as humanly possible, I accept the mug, say, “Thank you,” and sit down on the very edge of one of the more comfortable armchairs off to the side. In the past, I’ve always avoided those chairs because they make it feel too much like the stereotypical and-how-do-you-feel-about-that-Garen? sort of sessions that make me cringe; sitting in the rigid, uncomfortable chair with Doc’s desk separating us makes me feel more like I’m in the headmaster’s office, getting yelled at, which is much more familiar territory for me. Today, I’m in the mood to be treated like a psych patient. After a beat, Doc slides into the seat across from me and says, “I was surprised when they told me you’d requested an appointment for this afternoon. I wasn’t expecting to see you again until our usual Saturday meeting.” “Yeah, well, I sort of…” I pause and take a sip of my coffee while I try to find a tactful way of phrasing what I want to say. There isn’t one. “I sort of lost my shit yesterday. Like, even on the Garen Anderson scale of things. I know that, on a crazy scale of one to ten, a typical person’s ten is equal to my three or four, but this is… it was a ten, even for me.” Doc frowns and leans forward slightly. “What happened?” “You know that Travis and I are, uh… we’re involved again,” I say, blinking down at my knees so that I won’t have to see her disapproving stare. She hadn’t exactly been thrilled during our last two sessions when she’d casually brought up Travis, and I’d admitted I’m totally hitting that again. But it’s more awkward now, because it’s beginning to look like she was right. I continue, “He has enough credits to graduate a semester early, and he wants to go to college in New York so that he can live with me while I’m at Patton. He wants to make sure I’ve got a support system other than Jamie, because he—Jamie’s great. He’s my best friend in the entire world, and I love him more than pretty much anything, and I know he would never do anything to hurt me or fuck with my sobriety. But he’s not sober, and I can’t ask him to be. It wouldn’t be fair for me to ask him to never bring alcohol into the apartment, but Travis is willing to make that promise on his own. So, he went to New York yesterday so that Jamie could show him around the Columbia campus, only… only he didn’t tell me about it. Not in advance, anyway. He said he was doing school stuff, but when Jamie mentioned it, I thought that Travis h-had been hiding things from me, and I sort of freaked out.” “Freaked out in what way?” Doc asks. Before I can respond, she raises a hand and adds, “And we’re going to come back to the idea of you and Travis living together, obviously.” “Obviously,” I echo, running the tip of my finger around the lip of the mug. “I don’t… really know how to explain what happened, though. It was like something just went wrong in my head, like there was this switch that had been flipped to ‘fine’ for weeks, and then suddenly it got turned to ‘so not fucking fine.’ He wasn’t even acting differently, you know? And now, I know I could’ve just been like, ‘dude, why did you go to New York,’ but at the time, it seemed fucking impossible to do something like that. I was convinced that he wanted to end things with me again, or that maybe he was screwing around—with Jamie, I guess? Which is fucking stupid, because I know that neither of them would ever do that to me, but it seemed so easy to believe at the time. And I, uh. I wanted to come up with some way to keep him. I wanted to do something that would fix things.” Too used to my screwed-up brand of “problem solving” by now, Doc cringes. “What did you do?” “I offered to let him fuck me,” I say softly. Then, before she can reply, I amend, “That’s not—it was more than that. I figured that I could maybe keep him interested, if I proved that I was willing to let him do something he likes, even though I really can’t stand it. And he doesn’t—I haven’t really talked to him, I guess? Not about the, uh. The Dave thing. He knows about the abuse, obviously, but not about the r—the other bit. The sex stuff. Pretty much everybody else knows; Jamie has always known, Ben knows, Alex knows, even the drama club idiots know. Travis doesn’t, though. But he still kept asking if I was sure, and I kept lying and telling him yeah, I wanted it. And so he, uh… we started. You know, we started fucking? But I couldn’t—I freaked out hard. At first, I was faking like I was into it, but then I started to panic, and I couldn’t breathe, and I felt like I was going to go completely crazy. But he realized I wasn’t okay, and he stopped immediately, and he helped me calm down, and that’s when he told me about the early graduation stuff. And I feel like I’m okay now, but I wanted to meet with you because… it’s not the panicking that scares me now. Looking back, I get why that happened. Of course I freaked out while getting topped. The thing that scares me is that I did it in the first place. I got so fucked in the head yesterday for absolutely no reason, and I want to know why.” To my surprise, Doc caps her pen, tosses it and her notebook back onto the desk, and instead grabs a book from the shelf by her head. She holds it out to me, and I accept it. Across the cover, in angry red letters, are the words I Hate You—Don’t Leave Me: Understanding the Borderline Personality. I snort and say, “Cute.” Without speaking, she hands me a second book. Sometimes I Act Crazy: Living With Borderline Personality Disorder. I sigh. “I thought you said that we couldn’t be positive about a diagnosis yet.” “You’ve been in my care for six months, Garen. How much longer do you intend to make me wait before you’re comfortable even discussing the disorder?” Doc asks gently. I try to hand her back the books, but she refuses to accept them. “If you’re looking for an explanation for what happened to you yesterday, I’m not sure I can give you one, unless you’re willing to discuss what happened within the scope of a borderline diagnosis. Do I need to get out the DSM again?” “No, you need to fuck off with the DSM,” I say shortly. Then, I adopt a mocking tone to add, “I get it, okay? I have unstable interpersonal relationships. I’m oversensitive to real or perceived abandonment and rejection. I engage in reckless and self-destructive behaviors. I have difficulty expressing my anger in appropriate manners, which often results in physical confrontation, or me throwing a temper tantrum like a five-year-old. You’ve told me all the symptoms you think I have, but has it ever occurred to you that maybe I’m just an asshole? Seriously, not everyone who has a shitty personality automatically has a personality disorder—” “That’s true, but I think it would be wise for you to consider using some of the strategies that often work for patients who have BPD. We’ve spoken before about your black-and-white world view, and how taking a step back from that and attempting to rationalize your decisions before you act will prevent impulsive—” I lean over to set the coffee mug down on the desk with a loud thud. “Look, it’s great that you want to put a neat little label on whatever’s wrong with me, but I think you’re jumping the gun in calling it a personality disorder. I think—” “Which is more important to you: denying that you might have BPD, or figuring out a way to cope with the feelings you have?” I cross my arms over my chest. “Well, when you put it like that, you make it sound like I’d be a dumbass for continuing to argue my point.” The corners of her mouth twitch. “‘Dumbass’ is your word, not mine. But I wouldn’t necessarily disagree with it.” I slump down in my seat. “I just want to be able to function. And not just some of the time—I can handle that. I want to be able to function all the time, and I want to be able to have a relationship that doesn’t get totally fucked every time Travis doesn’t provide me with a full itinerary for his week.” “I’m glad you bring Travis up again,” Doc says, with a long-suffering sigh. I get that—the Travis conversation has been going on since the first day she met me. “You already know my stance on you becoming involved with someone during your first year of sobriety, however determined you apparently are to ignore my suggestions. But I need to strongly caution against remaining involved with him if you’re going to be living together in just a few weeks.” Automatically, my chest seizes up. I wish I were still holding the coffee mug, if only so I’d have something to clench my hands around, because right now, I feel like I’m not attached to anything. But this is exactly like what I’m supposed to be avoiding—the panic, the fear of being alone, the mad scramble to hang onto him even though he’s not slipping away. I take a long, steadying breath and ask, “Why?” Doc hastens to say, “You’re absolutely right in thinking that living with a sober roommate is a healthier option than living with someone like James, who doesn’t have any substance abuse issues and is free to indulge in drug or alcohol use when the mood strikes him. I think you’ve taken an important step in recognizing that you need a clean environment if you hope to stay on track.” I raise a fist in the air, celebrating my own awesomeness like I’m Judd Nelson at the end of The Breakfast Club. Doc ignores it, because she has no joy in her soul. “The problem isn’t with you living with Travis; the problem is that the two of you are involved with each other, and if that doesn’t go well, it could jeopardize your sobriety. Throughout the past two weeks, Travis has remained adamant in his insistence that you are both single. So, that begs the question, if you and he are living together and remain sexually involved, will you share a bedroom? Would you be able to cope with waking up every morning next to someone who point-blank refuses to be your boyfriend? Would you be able to cope with him bringing home someone else, as would be perfectly within his rights as a single man? Would you be able to cope with any arguments you may have with him, if you don’t have any real physical or emotional space to yourself? Would you be able to cope with any changes to your dynamic, if they occurred after you’d both fallen into the routine of being live-in lovers? He could meet someone, or you could meet someone, or hell, you could just get bored of each other, or angry with each other. Whatever progress you’d made towards stability would be completely ruined by the need to change the way you two interact. In my opinion, if you really do want to live with Travis, it is essential that you end—or at least postpone—your sexual relationship before moving into your new place, and it is even more essential that you make sure that the two of you have separate beds, separate bedrooms, separate spaces where you can go to process your feelings on your own. Without the safety and stability of that solitude, it will be impossible for you to learn to rely on yourself to ensure your sobriety.” “Doc,” I say quietly, “I can’t—I just got him back.” “I know that, Garen,” she says, sounding for once like she actually gets how much this sucks for me. “But it’s more important that you find a stable, sober environment. I have no doubt that, once you’ve been clean for a while longer—perhaps even into that one-year mark, like I keep suggesting—and you’re settled into more of a routine, you two will be able to work out the details of your romantic relationship.” I drag a hand through my hair. “After everything I’ve put him through—walking out that first time, and the addiction, and the relapse, and both of us taking our turns in dating Ben, and everything—I can’t ask him to wait for me again.” “I honestly don’t believe you’d have to ask,” Doc says mildly. “I’ve met Travis. I’ve seen the way you two interact with each other. I know that he cares about you, which is why I believe he’ll understand how important it is for the two of you to end your physical relationship for the time being.” “But if he doesn’t?” “He will.” “But if—” “For Christ’s sake, Garen, he’ll understand. You just need to talk to him about it, rather than panicking and assuming that distance is the same thing as rejection.” She checks her clock and adds, “I’m sorry, but we need to wrap this up. I wasn’t able to schedule a full, forty-five minute session for you today, on account of it being outside our usual block. But if you have another episode, please don’t hesitate to make an appointment again, even if it means coming in before next Saturday, alright?” I once again try to hand her the two borderline books, but she shakes her head and says, “Hang onto them for now. Give each one a read-through, and let me know what you think. You can return them to me at a future session. You’re still planning to come back every other Saturday once you move, right?” I nod. “If you’d prefer to find a New York doctor so that you can avoid a biweekly commute, I can get you a referral.” I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure it’s easier to just stick with you. You’re attuned to my particular form of crazy, and hey, you won’t shut the fuck up about how I need stability, right? I recognize that. Total progress.” “Get out of my office,” she sighs, but I think she sounds kind of fond when she says it.